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Bukowski Girls
by Valentine Bonnaire © 2004

there is never going to be
any peace
for any individual
upon this earth (or
anywhere else
they might
escape to).

all you can do
is maybe grab
ten lucky minutes
or maybe an hour

           —Charles Bukowski from "restless as the tarantula"

Spend too much time hunting down the moon and look what you get.  A headache. Dammit, Nangeline thought to herself. Where in the hell is he?

Baxter was known for his courageous infidelities all over Big Sur.  He never had less than a dozen women in every corner of that forest, hanging out windows and sighing his name.  And do you know why? He was good at it.  Umm, hmm.  Nobody could match Baxter in the love department.  He liked it that way too.  Being a kingpin, like that.  Women in the Sur hung off him like passion fruits on a long clingy vine.  They were all his for the taking, one by one by one.

There are all kinds of boys and girls in this world.  You learn soon enough that a boy is going to be one sort of thing or the other.  Boy Scouts never do you wrong.  Never.  Not like Bukowski's boys.  Those boys are the ones that drive you screaming out into the streets late at night with the moon between your teeth like a sugary white lozenge.  It melts you eventually, most of the time.  Baxter was one of them, yes he was.  A Bukowski boy.  Unfortunately, Nangeline cared for him and that was probably her first mistake.  He had asked her to dinner at her favorite place in the Sur that night as a way to make amends for his philandering ways.

Nangeline passed her time reading the poet Fernando Pessoa while she waited for him at Nepenthe; pausing periodically to drink in the soft strains of jazz and nuevo flamenco rumbling by out on the patio, and taking in the crowd.  The wind up the coast had a brisk tang of mustard flowers and the fog was rolling in all over the evening. The Sur suits me, she thought, rather moodily. Damn Baxter, I hate it when you lie to me like you do.

Bukowski boys were for sucking on, long and hard like too-sweet candy straws inside of something that you just wanted to drink up until it's all done and gone like a chocolate soda from your youth.  But their taste was, you know, delicious, while it lasted, slouching up from the somewhere-god-knows-where and coming to get you all hard bone and grin when you're so damn hungry...

For that style of his.  Damn.  Just thinking about the way he touched her made Nangeline ache between her thighs.  But he touched all the Sur girls that way.  For all she knew, Baxter could have been with any one of those girls of his.  He'd been gone two days and their bed was cold as a moonstone at the bottom of a winter sea.  She couldn't get warm anymore, no she couldn't.  No matter how hard she tried.

Baxter and his damn stable, she thought. Just like Bukowski had his.

The hell with you, anyway, she thought.

When Nangeline looked up a handsome young stranger was standing before her with an unmistakable glint in his eye.  The closer she looked, the more it said "let's fuck," with a certain cachet or something that Nangeline understood all too well.  The Sur was like that.  Just a bunch of drifters and wildcats all holed up in a forest together living off poetry and their art.  You just never knew who'd float into the place.  It was all just flotsam and jetsam around those parts, let me tell you.  Then again, that's just the way it is when you throw all kinds of artists together like that.  Just sex and sex and more sex.  It was on everyone's mind all the time.

I always was a Bukowski girl myself, no doubt about that, she smiled to herself.

That damn Baxter, anyway.  Who does he think he is? Three hours late?

Baxter's fuck was the kind that comes from poets, like no other.  After you'd been with him just one night and after it was over you knew how to write the thing because it entailed or involved immortalization.  Umm, hmm.  On paper, because that is where you'd put it down first.  Right after.  Right after he had plunged inside you and pulled the pearl from the sea and made you cry out his name over and over moaning between your thighs for the empty spaces left after he came and went.  That's just how it is among artists when they fuck.  All those Big Sur girls knew about that technique of his around a bedroom...he'd had them all moaning low at one time or another.  That's how kingpins like him operated.  All those girls wanted that taste and he knew it.


A fuck like his curls around you like a mist, pours itself over you like cream, slams you up into and against walls, slipslides down them and tumbles across the floor, makes its way up onto a bed and bounces off the frame and then rolls itself off again back down to the floor banging up against it hard, then slithers across it and you're smack up against the wall again as it goes hurtling itself out into the night like a shriek.  Damn.  And then starts over.  And again.  But you don't cover the same territory twice.  Not with him.  Baxter was an artisan, sexually.  Yes, he was.

He was what you call a poetic lovemaker.  Writing about him was more important than coffee, even, the next morning.  Just what he did to you in bed at night was so over the deep end he was able to make you cry out screaming for days...

"What you reading there?" said the handsome man loudly, looking down at Nangeline and messing up her reverie.

"Pessoa," know his work?

"No, but it looks kind of well, strange, to me."

"It is.  I'm in a mood tonight, what can I say?"

"Well, let's get just you out of it then," he said with a grin. "My Aston Martin DB5 is right outside.  Let's have dinner in San Francisco.  I know a little place in North Beach you might like."

"All right, why not?" she smiled up into his tawny face and messy tumble of wild golden curls.

"What's your name?"

"Suavecito Lorca, but call me Suave."

"Any relation to...?"


"Too bad for you," sighed Nangeline as they sped up the coast.

The hell with you, Baxter was her last thought.

When Suave insisted on buying her a hot fudge sundae in Ghirardelli Square after dinner she just knew she was going to.  There was just no question at all.  Her mood had lifted considerably since the Sur.  It was that chocolate endorphin high.  Now, it was just a question of when and where, and the thought of getting back at that damn Baxter just made Nangeline grin from ear to ear.  Revenge.  What else would you expect from a Bukowski girl?...

Suave's young and tender lips began along her neck in a slow series of small drifty kisses that made Nangeline get all shaky inside.  On the drive back his fingers traced themselves up and down the inner curves of her trembling thighs with great aplomb.  Nangeline put her high-heeled foot right up on the dashboard to make it easier for him to touch her as the car curled through the fog and hairpin curves.  Her head rolled back against the seat and the only sound coming from that car was her sighs.  When his cock finally penetrated her Nangeline thought she'd about die from the pleasure of it all.  She laughed to herself as he licked his way across her thighs and made her scream coming into a poem of her own design.

Fuck like a poet and you know what it is to come hard—against a tongue or up against a cock rigid as the day is long - because he keeps getting harder and she goes all softness underneath him like a little feminine marabou creampuff.  There is just nothing like it when it comes to poets, nothing at's those temperaments they have, too.

That's your talent, poetess, Nangeline thought to herself. Temperament.

Unfortunately, Suave was just not quite a match for Baxter in that way.  He just plain didn't have enough style, even though he had great taste in cars and cities and understood just about everything there was to know about chocolate.  He just wasn't sexy enough for Nangeline.  Not delectable enough, know what I mean? Plus, he did not have Bukowski qualities.  Those were the most important thing, after all.  Unbeknownst to Baxter, Nangeline had sampled them all behind his back.  Those boys in the Sur.  Not one of them could touch him, you know, technique-wise, sexually.  Well, what else could you expect from a Bukowski girl anyway? She had a stable of her own, just like his.  She liked it that way too.

That last one I had still calls groveling, immortalized in my poems and what did he know about love anyway? Nothing.  Wasn't even that good at it really.  Not half as good as Suave was, anyway.  And definitely not like Baxter, the kingpin himself.  Damn fool.

But I wrote him a poem, you know.

In the end that's all that matters.

© 2004 Valentine Bonnaire. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without written permission from the author.

Bio:  Valentine Bonnaire's work has appeared at The Erotica Readers and Writers Association, Clean Sheets, and Slow Trains Literary Journal under various noms de plume. She is a contributing editor at Clean Sheets magazine, and this year hopes to write "that novel." Visit Valentine at

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